A year-end interlude

Brief notes on time and remembrance

It has been months since I last wrote to you. This recent hiatus may have been the longest since I began this newsletter nearly two years ago, and while I have my reasons—health being the main one—I was determined not to let the year end without another entry.

They say as you get older time seems to move faster, as though the sand in the hourglass becomes finer and finer with every passing year. I do feel it changing slowly. Just this past December has been a flurry of activity, and without my journal and message archives, I fear much of what transpired will have been quickly forgotten before the month has ended.

There are the highlights. Impulsively, I decided to join my family in Busan for Christmas. I bought the plane ticket, hastily put together my Korean visa application, and waited anxiously for two weeks hoping I would not have to cancel the trip (I write this from the apartment we’re renting in Busan, South Korea). I also took on several exciting freelance projects—two of them I have never done before—which I will be working on over the holidays. There were a handful of rejection emails from various journals, and a single acceptance letter. My contributor’s copy of Black Warrior Review also just arrived. At work, difficult decisions have hovered over my head, and I am forced to confront myself yet again: what is it that I am working towards?

Then, the small things that memory, over time, may forget, but I wish not to: the heartwarming letter I got from S—, a cherished friend I have never met in person but feel a deep kinship with. The recent video call with my best friend K— and seeing her happy and well. Joining A— at an outreach in Bertram on a freezing, rainy Saturday. Encouraging words from R—, a new acquaintance and fellow writer I admire. Catching Loki make an incredible jump from our kitchen sink to the bedroom loft. All the cold mornings Michael, Loki, and I would stand under the morning sun in our bare feet. Arriving at the same time with my family at the Gimhae International Airport from different flights.

My coworkers Alex, Aileen, and I, December (left), the winter issue of EPISTOLARIA, November (right)

My sister and I with a bowl of spicy seafood stew from a casual pub across our apartment in Busan, December

Michael and I at a seafood restaurant in Corpus Christi, November

Nanay Lily and I at my wedding reception, February

Sand, falling. The impermanence is a gift we honor with memory.

There is an entire year behind me I need to reflect on, but I’ll spare you those details. The point is not to count the grains of sand, anyway. I imagine sculpting with them is.

For now, I wanted to thank you for being here, reading this newsletter. For the time you’ve given me, and the kind words. All the support still astounds me. Whatever your month—or year—looked like, I hope you find time these next few days to rest, reflect, and, most importantly, celebrate the fact that we are here, alive. Merry Christmas and happy holidays, dear friend. Talk soon.